


blessed silence (yeah, I don't really go in for that)

by thatsparrow



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22157116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsparrow/pseuds/thatsparrow
Summary: "You know, I'm not entirely sure that black is your color.""What," Geralt said, slow, "the fuck is that supposed to mean."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 270





	blessed silence (yeah, I don't really go in for that)

"You know, I'm not entirely sure that black is your color."

"What," Geralt said, slow, "the fuck is that supposed to mean."

He looked over to see Jaskier staring at him intently, chin propped up on one of his nobleman soft hands while the other stirred idly at the stew that was meant to be their dinner; from where he stood, Geralt could see the surface starting to congeal.

"No, listen, I think I'm onto something here—" Jaskier's voice had gone animated now, the tone that usually heralded some silver-spun bullshit. "Don't get me wrong, I do love the black—very classic, very frightening, very _don't mess with the big bad witcher_ —but between that lily-white hair and skin of yours—"

"So help me, Jaskier—"

"—it really washes you out. Leeches all the color from your cheeks so you look like something made of stone. But not an attractive stone, like marble or alabaster—no, something chalkier. Limestone, even, or asbestos."

"Nobody is carving with asbestos," Geralt said. "Are we done with this yet? You're burning our dinner."

Jaskier waved a hand, unconcerned. Fine, fuck it, he could have the bits that charred to the bottom of the pot. "What about something to go with your eyes? You've got such lovely, enchanting—albeit terrifying—eyes."

Was this hell? It at least felt hell-adjacent. "My eyes are also black. There, the armor matches. Please shut up, Jaskier."

"No, no, my friend." He was gesturing with the ladle now, intent, drops of stew raining down on the autumn-browned leaves around them. "That hardly counts. They're only black _occasionally,_ and exclusively when your company is something vicious that's aiming to separate your skull from your very sturdy shoulders. Never when you're wooing somebody."

Geralt snorted. "I've never _wooed_ anybody. I've fucked people, almost always those that were getting paid for it, and I can assure you that they were far more interested in the color of my coin than that of my shirt." He turned, surveyed the stone grey shadows of the trees around them. "I'm going to find some firewood. And silence."

"Look at me, Geralt."

"No."

"Imagine me, then."

"No."

"Have you ever seen me wearing black?" Geralt exhaled through his nose, pictured all the ways he might knock Jaskier unconscious with minimal lasting injury—actually, fuck it, the level of injury was negotiable. Behind him, Jaskier went on. "I'll save you the trouble of revisiting your memories: absolutely not. No, instead I favor a nice rose or russet palette to match the lovely pink of my cheeks, or a blue to bring out the handsomeness of my own eyes. Maybe even a gold when I'm feeling particularly festive."

"I'm not wearing blue or gold or fucking pink, Jaskier."

"Well, no, of course not," Jaskier said, "you'd look ridiculous. But you understand it's the _principle_ of the thing—"

"It's armor, and it doesn't give a shit about your principles. It's sturdy, and it cleans easy, and—more to the point—it serves its intended purpose of keeping me from being disemboweled." 

"Queen Calanthe wears gold armor."

"I'm not Queen Calanthe."

"Evidently. Though, I would wager that the size of your pectorals could rival her—"

" _Jaskier_."

That tone at least proved to be something Jaskier would listen to. He held up his hands in surrender, subsiding long enough while ladling out their dinner to grant Geralt a few blessed moments of peace. 

"Then again—"

"There cannot _possibly_ be an end to that sentence that would justify this conversation."

"I suppose your lady Yennefer wears a great deal of black, too."

Geralt paused in mid-motion where he'd been reaching for the laden bowl in Jaskier's hand. He raised an eyebrow. "So do priests. What's your fucking point?"

"That, if you aren't going to invest in a wardrobe that suits your own complexion, at least you've found a companion to match." Jaskier considered, spoon raised halfway to his mouth. "Though, I also suppose she is as inclined to have you out of your armor than in it." 

"She's not my lady, or my companion, or, in fact, my anything. She's a witch with too much power to trust that she's controlling it properly. Now shut up and eat, Jaskier, before I bury that ladle in your throat and shut you up myself."

"You wouldn't."

"Would you like to find out?"

Jaskier opened his mouth, then closed it, blinking like a fish a few times before deciding against arguing further and settling back into his meal. Certainly the wisest decision he'd made tonight, if not all month. _I'm not entirely sure that black is your color_. Bullshit. It hid bloodstains better than most anything else, and so by that metric alone, it suited Geralt fine.


End file.
